Tempered
by Sokerchick
Summary: Tempering; the process by which brittle metal is turned into a weapon and Michael is certainly a weapon


_The first stage of the forging process is the hardest. It starts as simple bar stock. Then it is heated and hammered heated and hammered until the first faint shape of the sword it will one day become can be seen._

The first time Michael Weston felt the sting of his father's hand lashing out in anger he was four years old. He had dropped the glass he was carrying as he tried to help his mother set the table. The glass fell to the floor and shattered into hundreds of tiny sharp fragments. A half second later the sound of a chair scraping across the floor could be heard. A second after that Michael found himself kneeling in the sharp shards his cheek stinging. He couldn't even decide what had happened it had all happened so fast.

"Don't be careless boy."

"Frank he's only four. These things happen."

By the time he was six he could tell when his father was drunk and tried to avoid it but the occasional fist would fling out his direction or a kick along with a gruff command to get another beer from the refrigerator. He could barely read but he knew which labels were the ones for the beer. He had only made that mistake once.

At eight he took to sending his brother to the neighbor's house. The woman had four cats and the house always reeked of them but she always made Nate fresh cookies. Nate was five then and knew it was safe to come home when the cookies were cool.

Once father beat him so badly he ended up in the hospital with three broken ribs and a broken arm. His face was a mass of bruises and he had trouble chewing for a week. The reason his father later claimed was that Michael had 'looked at him disrespectfully'. When Michael got home from the hospital he carefully examined his face in the mirror. He breathed in deeply despite the pain from his chest and met his own eyes in the glass. He could almost see what his father was talking about, there was a hardness in his eyes. A glint or a glare a coldness. That night he dreamed of ways to kill his father, the first of many nights spent like that. He had turned eleven just three days prior.

 _The blade is then quenched. This rapid cooling process realigns the molecules of the sword toughening and strengthening it._

Boot camp had been hard. Not because he couldn't handle the constant soreness in his body as his muscles were shaped and defined, he was well used to living in pain. The problem was learning not to react to the yelling. By the time he was seventeen and he convinced his mother to sign the papers for him to enlist his father was no longer big enough to push him around. Instead he yelled. The catalyst for the paper signing was when his father yelled and Michael started hitting back.

So here he was. In the Army clenching his fists as his drill instructor screamed at him learning to be whatever he had to be so he never had to return home.

 _The process repeats itself. Heat:_

Gunfire flew over his head as he ducked and dodged through the desert.

 _Hammer:_

Losing his friend was like a physical blow. It hurt worse than anything he could remember. He pulled the chinstrap of his helmet tighter and turned back to the fight. There would be time to grieve later. Michael's heart hardened just a little more.

 _Quench:_

He found himself in a boot camp of a different kind. They called it the farm. Where the CIA brought candidates to shape them into agents. That was fine with Michael, he was used to it.

 _Heat:_

The idea of someone plotting against the United States ignited a fury in Michael. Who would dare try to destabilize his country, his home. He would find those enemies and make them his own, then he would ensure they could never threaten his shores.

 _Hammer:_

His first operation for the CIA had been brutal. He had spent three weeks in the jungles of South America living off the land there. He achieved his goals but when his handler first saw him step off the plan the man who had trained countless Agents sucked in a breath. Michael was gaunt his cheekbones standing out prominently in his well defined features. But it was the hollow look in his eyes that made him recoil. Something had taken the traces of humanity in his eyes in that jungle and anyone who dared to meet them could see it.

 _Quench:_

He learned to pick locks and speak Russian.

 _Heat:_

His next operation he had slipped up and they had spent hours being interrogated by the enemy. When finally they released him without gathering the information they wanted he made his way home. There he was interrogated again to ensure he would learn his lesson.

 _Hammer:_

They were nearly away. The op had gone perfectly except that the dog had started barking as the crossed near silently the open yard behind the guard house. They made a run for it and bullets exploded into the trees around them. Shrapnel cut groves into his shoulders and back.

 _Quench:_

He could now speak four languages. Hotwire cars, build explosives from the raw materials under a sink, and lie so that even he himself couldn't see through his cover sometimes.

 _The blade is carefully sharpened, the edges ground to a fine point and honed._

Michael pulled on his suit jacket. It was tailored perfectly to the contour of his body. He slid the gold rimmed sunglasses over his eyes and surveyed the landscape. Six missions in seven weeks. He was completing them like a well oiled machine. There had been no mistakes, no flaws in his plans. Only success after success. He smiled a smile that would have made his enemies quake in their boots. He was Michael Weston, and anyone who heard that name feared it.

 _Until finally the blade is finished. Ready to be wielded by any who have the strength and courage to command it._


End file.
